Diane Davidson - The Cereal Murders

But if someone disrupted your life, you wouldn’t do well.

Someone had deliberately smashed Keith Andrews’ windshield the day of the Princeton rep’s visit. Not long after, that same person had probably killed him.

Someone had broken a window in our house, hung a snake in Arch’s locker, and perhaps planted a deadly spider in a drawer. Our steps had been booby trapped, our chimney stopped up, and one of our car windshields broken. The result had been police surveillance, worry, conflict, lack of sleep, quizzes failed, homework and college applications left undone.

The person who had suffered most had been a highly emotional person, someone who cared deeply about those around him, someone who was terribly vulnerable to criticism and cruelty.

Could it be that neither Arch nor I was at the heart of this campaign of harassment?

Excuse the fuck me. And then another time: This stuff at the school is getting to me.

I pictured Julian, who knew so many things that he was unwilling to discuss – the steroids, bitter conflicts between his classmates, perhaps even blackmail. He was also ranked number two in the Elk Park Prep senior class. Keith Andrews, the top student, was now dead.

I sat up straight, splashing cocoa down the front of my coat. I didn’t have time to wipe it off or even curse it because I was running toward the house. The windshield incident was probably meant to lure me away. Dammit, I had never been in danger at the bookstore.

I fumbled with the front doorknob. My mind raced. Whoever had smashed my van knew who would be affected. Who stood in the way of a higher class rank? Who was vulnerable to a campaign of harassment of his employer and her son, whom he held so dear? Who would volunteer to clean up in my absence?

Julian had been the true target all along.

I called Julian’s friend, Neil Mansfield. Had Julian asked him for a ride? No, Julian said someone else volunteered to drive him back to Aspen Meadow. Who? Neil didn’t know. But, Neil added, he himself had been home for an hour, so Julian should be home by now. Great. Did Neil have any idea who else might know who offered this ride? No clue.

I tried to reach Schulz. No answer at his home. The Sheriff’s Department dispatcher said he couldn’t raise the homicide investigator on his cell phone. I glanced at the clock: 10:30.

I had no ideas, no plan, nothing but panic. I grabbed I the keys to the Rover. If I called the police, I would not know what to tell them or where to send them. I willed the mental picture of Keith Andrews’ bloody head out of my mind.

The bookstore. That was the last place I had seen Julian; that was where I would start. Maybe I could call Miss Kaplan, or some of the staff, maybe someone had seen him leave… but how would I get phone numbers for these people? Reluctantly, I dialed Audrey Coopersmith, but got only a sleepy Heather.

“Mom’s not here. She went out with Dad.”

“What?”

“She said they were trying to work things out.”

“Look, Heather, I have to talk to her. I … left something in the store… and I need to know how to reach somebody there now.”

“Why? The bookstore’s closed.”

“You didn’t see Julian, did you? At the end of the evening?”

“Ms. Bear, you’re confusing me. Did you leave a thing or a person in the bookstore?”

Oh, God, the grade book. I had left something in the bookstore. If Julian was still alive, if somebody wanted the evidence of that grade book enough… maybe I could do a swap. But I didn’t know who I was dealing with, what that person would want or when.

“Heather, look, I have a big problem. Julian’s life may be in danger… and I do have something. I have Miss Ferrell’s grade book.”

A sharp intake of breath from Heather. “You? But we’ve been looking for it; I can’t do the class rank without it.”

“Listen up. I need you to call every senior’s family. Be sure you talk to the senior and the parents – “

“But it’s late –“

“Please! Tell every single person I have Miss Ferrell’s grade book and that I’ll swap it for Julian, at Elk Park Prep in” – I hastily consulted my watch – “two hours. No questions asked.”

“Does that include my mother? Because I don’t know where she is. And you still don’t have a way of getting into the store.”

“Find her. I’ll figure out the store situation. Your mother and Carl must have a favorite restaurant or something. Find them. Please, Heather, find everybody.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“Trust me.” I hung up before she could continue to analyze my mental status.

I ran out to the Rover. I shifted into first gear and thought, Audrey out with Carl? Unbelievable. But that was the least of my concerns.

The Rover engine roared as I sped down Interstate 70 to Denver. At the First Avenue light I turned left on Milwaukee and pulled up to the parking garage entrance. The first thing I had to figure out was whether Julian had taken my van anywhere.

Glitch: the lot was closed. Worse, the horizontal bar was down.

What was a barricade to the rhino guard of a desert vehicle? I backed up, gunned the engine forward, and crashed through the horizontal bar.

The growl of the car engine echoed off the concrete walls and through the cavernous space of the deserted garage. Up, up, I went to the third-floor level. And there was my van, parked ominously, alone, next to the entrance. Glass sparkled at its tires.

My heartbeat banged in my ears. How was I going to get back into the store? Could Audrey, in stomping out of the bookstore in a rage, have forgotten her purse in my van? I desperately hoped she had left her security entrance card behind. Unless she had manufactured her tantrum …

Best not to speculate until I had the grade book in my hands. I hopped out of the Rover and slid open the van door. The sound reverberated eerily.

“Julian?” I whispered into the van’s cold depths. Silence. And then I looked in shock at the mess of papers, boxes, and cups that the overhead light illuminated. The vehicle had been trashed.

I was so angry, I almost slammed the door. But then I saw Audrey Coopersmith’s overturned purse on the floor. I searched desperately for the magnetic-striped security card. It was not there. Now what?

An explosion cracked the stillness. A gunshot. I fell forward.

The sound had come from inside the store. I ran up to the back entrance security post. The light was green: Whoever had ransacked my van had probably used Audrey’s card to open the electronic lock. I wrenched open the first glass door and then the second. I cursed wildly to overcome fear as I stepped into the dark depths of the bookstore.

The air was black, tarlike. The silence was absolute. I stepped carefully out onto the soft carpet. The smell of the bookstore was rich: paper, carpet, bindings, books, chairs, wood, dust. The odor of humans still lingered. I was near the kitchenette but could see nothing. The desk was close by; Audrey had shown it to me… .

The flashlights.. One under each desk. I walked through the darkness, not knowing whether I was going in a straight or crooked path, but heading in my mind’s eye toward where that desk must be. My foot thumped the side of a chair. It squeaked forward on tiny, unseen wheels. Damn. I groped underneath the desk until I found the cold metal clips holding the flashlight. My fingers closed around it. When I turned it on, I heard another shot. Louder, this time. Closer.

“Julian!” I shouted into the darkness. The phone. Call Schulz. I extricated myself from underneath the desk, stood, and directed the light to the phone. I dialed 911, begged them to come to the Tattered Cover right away, and hung up. The silence pressed down on me.